After a series of short films celebrating interpretive dance (and yes, there were many times I wondered ‘dear God, please let the credits roll now’), we cut loose here, making the most of an amazing array of media-related interactive installations and displays. Bless the Victorian State Government – it’s the most fun I’ve had in ages!
The misty, Twilight Zone/X-Files-like light and smoke room:
Monster shadow puppet projections:
Matrix visual hijinks (See more here):
An amazing version of INXS’ Never Tear Us Apart by Annie Clark of St Vincent, Beck and a couple of other music dudes (from Os Mutantes and The Liars, I believe).
See it here.
Her photograph series The Birthday Party shows what an eerie and mystical world children can (and probably do) inhabit.
See more here.
Rifling through Melbourne’s various second-hand bookshops, it has become clear that my previous score was quite the fluke. Old Penguins cannot be had for love or money for less than $7. It is more likely the well-thumbed, slightly grubby condition of the book factored in the $5 price.
In any case, I’ve upped the stakes in my game to Penguins costing no more than $9. My latest purchases (below) for $7 and $8 respectively.
As you can see, I’m currently on a bit of a DH Lawrence binge.
Lady Chatterley’s Lover was a revelation. I’m no literary scholar but his beautiful prose, his tender empathy for the plight of women and men and the gulf/bridge between the sexes and the classes, his quiet, incisive observations of the struggle between mind and body, his reverence for the human spirit and the not-so-subtle rants against the industrial age left me moved. Humbled. And quite contemplative.
I first read Lady Chatterley’s Lover many years ago, when I was a teenager and remember putting it away, bored, and suspecting, quite rightly, that I had missed the point. Now, re-reading it with more years and wisdom in me, it suddenly made beautiful, perfect sense.
I came across these sometime last week from this fabulous blog.
They’re all from the 1940s, 1950s and 1960s.
God Help The Girl by God Help The Girl.
The innocent, playful 1950s/60s vibe puts me in mind of the opening credits to Hayao Miyazaki’s Kiki’s Delivery Service, which used a song called Ruuju No Degon (trans. Message to Rouge) by Japanese singer Yumi Arai.
In another life, I would have had a voice like a nightingale, which I would have put to good use as part of a 1950’s/60’s girl group.
Here’s hoping that Stuart Murdoch et al. will soon announce Down Under as part of their touring schedule.
Here in the middle of inner city Melbourne, you can indulge your inner agriculturist / plowperson / gentle farmer / serf while satiating your predilection for all produce wholesome and organic and sipping your café latte.
We made a rookie mistake of sitting down and tucking in to a huge breakfast of atlantic salmon, eggs benedict, ricotta hotcakes and berry compote. I was out and about early for a Saturday, the temperature was brisk, the bright golden sunshine hypnotic and I was hungry and in that vague, pre-first-coffee-of-the-morning haze when my decision-making skills are erratic.
Being stuffed to the gills quite defeats the purpose of wandering about a farmers’ market and tasting exotically flavoured olive oils, jams, chutneys etc. Instead, we grabbed some coffee and wandered around the unexpectedly large grounds of the convent, came across a little boy halfway up a tree who insisted he wasn’t a monkey but rather, a human, and headed over to the neighbouring farm to see the animals.
There, we witnessed a cat chase and pounce on a terrified mouse in the midst of a group of excited children, patted an ambivalent goat, an indifferent cow and a disinterested horse, laughed at the piercing self-importance of the peacocks’ screech, and cooed over the surprising bulk of the big, black pigs. But my favourite? The fluffy chickens who looked to be wearing fur coats and Russian-style fur hats.
I was amused to note the Melbourne newspaper The Age recently give advice to readers suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). According to the article, approximately 4 percent of the (presumably, Australian) population suffers from this disorder and it recommends sufferers undergo bright-light therapy via a lightbox.
I suggest just stepping outside ooh, perhaps during any daylight hour. It might be late autumn but yesterday, it was all light sweaters and mandatory sunglasses as I played flâneur around the streets of Northcote with Natasha and ickle Tatyana.
An ex-flatmate from London suggested these Australian sufferers of SAD come live in a council estate in East London in January. Each day, the London sky is leaden with grey clouds and the only light that you’ve seen all morning, and are likely to see for the rest of the day is the bleak grey haze of deepest, darkest winter. And that only lasts until 4pm each day when evening, and then night sets in. The sun itself hasn’t been seen for weeks on end and is not likely to break through until March. With a morose heart and head, you realise that all you can do is get your head down and try and get through the post-Christmas winter months as best you can and that only a trip out of the country (and possibly a lightbox) would cure your SADness.
Bless the marvellous Australian sunlight.
A former Elle Deco UK editor-turned-designer who is probably best known for her work on New York’s Soho House (its rooftop pool was made famous by the gals of Sex and the City), Ilse Crawford champions ‘modern and emotional’ design – design which brings warmth, resonance and human experience to daily life. The result? Elegant and harmonious yet intimate work, home and play interiors where one wants to linger.
The photos speak for themselves.